Smile for the Camera
by
Elizabeth Murphy
Fists pound on your door. A man’s voice yells, “We know you’re in there, Jessie.”
You resist, saying, “You’re too late.”
The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face. The audio feed is on high: waves breaking, gulls wailing, children laughing and shouting. The livestream shows a woman rubbing sunscreen on a little girl’s back.
Leaning into the screen, you whisper, “Put some behind her ears.”
The woman glances over her shoulder.
With a plastic bucket and shovel in hand, the girl jumps up.
“Wait,” the woman says. She reaches out to the girl and applies cream to the tops of her ears.
You take a deep breath, ready for the next test. You zoom into the water’s edge, where the sand is wet.
The girl upends a bucket of sand in the shape of a turret.
You clap. “Brava.”
She pauses, holding the shovel mid-air.
You want to stroke her face and say, “Good girl.” Now for the final test. You click your tongue.
The family’s Labrador stares into the webcam on the pole. He wags his tail when you say, “Get the stick.”
No more tests needed, only more time.
“Open up.” It’s the same threatening tone.
The Labrador’s bark matches the pounding on the door.
It’s the sign you’ve been praying for. You press enter. The image flickers, then the pixels multiply. The key rattles in the lock. The door opens. A blade of light intrudes.
The timestamps reverse at bullet speed. You’re floating now. A breeze brushes over your cheeks. The air smells salty. You’re cold and wet. You can’t breathe.
Hands reach under your shoulders, pulling you toward light.
You take deep breaths and open your eyes.
A man holds you close to his chest as he stands deep in the water. He kisses your cheek. “I’ve got you, Jessie. You were under for a long time.”
The woman calls, “Time for lunch.”
As you head toward the shore in his arms, you glance up at the camera. You smile and wave in case they’re watching on the other side.
You resist, saying, “You’re too late.”
The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face. The audio feed is on high: waves breaking, gulls wailing, children laughing and shouting. The livestream shows a woman rubbing sunscreen on a little girl’s back.
Leaning into the screen, you whisper, “Put some behind her ears.”
The woman glances over her shoulder.
With a plastic bucket and shovel in hand, the girl jumps up.
“Wait,” the woman says. She reaches out to the girl and applies cream to the tops of her ears.
You take a deep breath, ready for the next test. You zoom into the water’s edge, where the sand is wet.
The girl upends a bucket of sand in the shape of a turret.
You clap. “Brava.”
She pauses, holding the shovel mid-air.
You want to stroke her face and say, “Good girl.” Now for the final test. You click your tongue.
The family’s Labrador stares into the webcam on the pole. He wags his tail when you say, “Get the stick.”
No more tests needed, only more time.
“Open up.” It’s the same threatening tone.
The Labrador’s bark matches the pounding on the door.
It’s the sign you’ve been praying for. You press enter. The image flickers, then the pixels multiply. The key rattles in the lock. The door opens. A blade of light intrudes.
The timestamps reverse at bullet speed. You’re floating now. A breeze brushes over your cheeks. The air smells salty. You’re cold and wet. You can’t breathe.
Hands reach under your shoulders, pulling you toward light.
You take deep breaths and open your eyes.
A man holds you close to his chest as he stands deep in the water. He kisses your cheek. “I’ve got you, Jessie. You were under for a long time.”
The woman calls, “Time for lunch.”
As you head toward the shore in his arms, you glance up at the camera. You smile and wave in case they’re watching on the other side.